


chrysalis

by strawwbs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Issues, Fights, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Korean Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron)-centric, Lance is not your typical nerd, Langst, Living in motels, M/M, Poverty, Punk!keith, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Straight A Student! Lance, god i hate that term, klangst, lances family is changed a bit, nerd!lance, starts off light then gets darker, this is like ANGST angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawwbs/pseuds/strawwbs
Summary: met·a·mor·pho·sis/ˌmedəˈmôrfəsəs/nounIn order to become a butterfly, the caterpillar has to fall apart completely, decompose down to its very essence, devoid of any shape or consciousness. It literally dies. There is nothing left of it. And from this liquid essence, the butterfly starts to put itself together, from scratch.Or, Lance will do anything to escape the town he was raised in. Even if it means destroying himself in the process. But, in his senior year of high school, he’s slammed with a mountain of impossible problems, including meeting a mean boy named Keith.yes this is klangst 😔
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Lance & Lance's Family (Voltron)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50





	1. blackmail material

**Author's Note:**

> ok so, ive not read many voltron angst fics with actual struggle in them (its usually direct and automatic hurt/comfort) and i wanted to read something angsty and realistic, and eventually realized i had to write it myself 😺
> 
> bruh i hate tagging this shit cause the tags are literally spoilers but nobody will find this fic if i dont tag it 😔😔 smh 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where Lance sorta-almost-sorta gets into a fight.

One notable thing about the McLain’s had always been sheerly how _many_ of them there were.

People said their mother’s and father’s reproduce like bunnies. One mother, One father, and six children to a family. Account every single brother or sister or auntie and uncle and _their_ children, and it was a family reunion so big it clogged the block and received noise complaints.

Their block was one on the poorer side of town. It’s old cobbled section-eight housing settled well into their foundations, where every morning the abuelitas would meet on the porch for the morning gossip, and every evening the abuelos would meet to smoke cigars. A place where everyone knew each other. A place that wasn’t horrible by any means, but seemed to trap you like a bug in a spider’s sticky web until you’re old and crooked and realized too late you sleep in the same room you were raised in as a child.

Lance was _horrified_ of staying there.

He worked himself to the bone to make sure it didn’t happen. He sweat and cried and went many nights without sleep because Lance didn’t know what he’d _do_ if he couldn’t escape. 

A basketball bounced slowly to a stop near his feet. 

“Yo, Lance, if you’re not gonna shoot pass it here dude!”

The tan boy scooped the tattered, sun-worn ball into his arms and threw it back one handedly.

The boy who had asked for the ball was Lance’s neighbor, and friend since fifth grade, Emiliano Vasquez; a 5’4 varsity player with a trashy mouth. 

“McClain’s got his head in the clouds again.” Another one of the neighborhood boys, Jack, laughed. 

Lance flicked his wrist. “I’m just thinking. You should try it some time.” 

Emiliano “Ohhh”-ed, and Jack acted shocked. 

“Don’t get sweet with me boy.” 

The boy faked a pass and quickly shoved the ball in the direction of Lance’s face, who (admittedly) barely evaded it. He stumbled on his own untied shoe laces, but managed to scoop the ball up long enough to score a three pointer. 

This earned a few victorious cries from the boys. Lance smiled. “Who’s head is in the clouds now?”

“You got me there, McClain.”

“Damn right he does!” Emiliano shouted. “That’s my boy right there! Quick with it! Gimme some.” Lance rolled his eyes as he and Emiliano did their handshake. 

He chuckled. “You only support me when I do something right.”

He got a faux-stern gaze and finger point. “Hey now, that might be true, but you remember me you when become some engineer or somethin’.”

“Pilot.” Lance corrected.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. I want you to remember your good friend Mili when you’ve got money n’ bitches. Okay? I want the ones with them fat asses, like Kim K.”

“Kim K’s ass is made of so much plastic it might as well be a landfill—“

“Don’t you dare talk smack about my baby Kim—“

A voice interrupts them. 

“Boys!” Emiliano’s mother called from her porch, her hair frizzed and cooking apron still on, “Inside now! _¡A cenar!”_

_“¡Si!_ ” They all shouted back in unison, picking up the basketball and wedging it under a metal bar on the hoop, like they always do, rushing inside to her little flat.

Emiliano and his family lived in flat 308 with his mother, father, abuela, and three siblings, and also, on occasion, Lance and Co.

His mother had to cook like she was feeding a whole restaurant. She piled rice, beans, and shredded chicken onto his plate so high Lance thought he’d never be able to finish it. 

“ _Comes, comes. Comes bien,_ Lance. _Debes poner carne en esos huesos.”_ She muttered, spreading more chicken onto Lance’s already mound-like plate of food.

“English mother.” Emiliano chided. “Jack is here.”

_“Maldice el gringos_.” She bit, before softening her voice. “Sorry, Jack.” She pinches his cheek and the boy smiles awkwardly. “It’s just that you’re here so often you’re starting to feel like another one of my children! You sure do eat me out of the house like one of ‘em.”

“That’s because your food is delicious, Mama V.” He said over a mouthful.

Attention is turned back to Lance as Ms. Vasquez notices he hasn’t eaten much of his own plate. 

“Are you not hungry Lance?”

“Ate before I came.” He answered. “Just too spacey today.”

“Ah.” Mama V took her hair out of the tight ponytail, letting the stringy black hair lay over her shoulder. “That too. It certainly doesn’t affect your grades though. Can’t say the same for my Milano.”

“I told you Mami it’s _Mili_ not _Milano_!” Emiliano protested. “Milano sounds so lame.”

“You came out of me, hijo, I will call you whatever I want.” 

Groaning, Emiliano shoved his hands in his hair and Jack stifled a laugh.

Ms. Vasquez wasn’t done talking to him though. 

“How’s your familia, Lance? I haven’t seen Rose in a while and you know how I worry about her. I have heard from none of your sisters either! _Tch_ , it’s like all the christmas gifts over the years meant nothing. Mama V gets nothing now! Not even _un abrazo.”_

That was everyone’s question nowadays. 

_ (“How’s your family, Lance?” _

_ “Are your mother and father still together?” _

_ “Where is your brother Marco?” _

_ “Is it true that—“ _

_ “I heard—“ _

_ “I think—“) _

Lance was tired of it.

“It’s fine,” he answered, waving a hand and taking a mouthful of beans to assure his answer, “they’re all fine. Mami’s good. Ronnie’s good.”

And she nodded her head, backing down from him even though anybody in the room could see the questions glimmering in her eyes. 

And the truth was that, anybody, even a blind half-wit, could see, clear as day, that the McClain household was _anything_ but fine.

* * *

When Lance got home to his own little shitty flat-roofed house he was exhausted. His bones were tired and sore and his mind was just as jaded. He dragged the whole way.

Lance jammed their house key into the lock of their creaky front door, which’s green paint was cracking and peeling away more ever passing day.

The door opens before he has the chance to fully unlock it and an annoyed looked Rachel stepped aside to let him in. 

“Took you long enough.” She grumbled. “We’re hungry.” 

Lance shrugged. “Then starve.”

“Wha—? _Lance—“_

“Calm down,” he started before she could blow up at him, “I brought leftovers from Mama V.”

“God bless that woman.” Rachel sighed.

She began heating up the tin of beans and chicken while Lance took off his shoes, leaving them in a bin by the door. Lance might be a heathen, but not _so_ much of a heathen that he’ll wear shoes inside.

“Where’s Nacho?” Lance questioned. His brother’s name wasn’t actually Nacho—it was just short for Ignacio, though Nacho was more fun to say.

“Don’t ask me.” Rachel stuffed a forkful of beans and rice into her mouth. “Mami doesn’t know either.”

Lance sighed. Of course she didn’t. “He’s probably with Papi then.”

Nacho had always favored Papi over their mother, even in childhood. He gained even more favoritism when they’re parents got divorced when Lance was eight (And Nacho was ten.)

Lance was second youngest, beating Rachel by exactly one year. Like, _exactly_. Rachel was born on the same day as Lance, just a year later. In school everyone thought they were twins, and it made for an interesting birthday party dynamic, where little Lance hogged all the attention and Rachel always ended up crying or throwing things.

Eventually, their parents decided it would be better to split them apart. And so, Rachel’s sixth birthday party and on, her birthday was officially celebrated three whole months later.

As for Lance’s other siblings, they were all graduated and/or married, and not currently living in the household. This upcoming month marks the second year Veronica since went off to college, actually. 

She had sworn to visit every month. (She only came twice)

Lance’s brother, Luis, was married with two darling little kids, Nadia and Silvio. And Lance’s other older brother, Marcos, was....somewhere. That’s all he knows.

Whether “ _somewhere”_ is a hotel room or dead in a ditch is up to God now.

“So, how was school?” Lance asks. 

Rachel groans and throws her head back. “A headache, as usual. I swear i’m just not built for it like you are.” 

Lance doesn’t point out that he _wasn’t_ in fact “ _built_ ” for it. Never has. Lance has severe ADHD, and until he started high school he had straight C’s and D’s. Pure hard work and spite is what got Lance this far. That and a digital calendar.

Rachel continued. “—I seriously am _so_ done with Algebra. I tried, I studied—it makes no fucking sense _._ You know what my teacher said today?” She rolled her eyes and let herself fall onto the couch with a plop. “He said that I should try out modeling, because of my ‘exotic features’. _Ugh_. Like, sometimes I wish our family didn’t have blue eyes. It confuses the whites.”

Lance laughs and he nudges her with her foot. “Hey maybe you can get him to raise your grade though, just blink a couple times real innocent.”

“Haha.” She deadpanned. “You’re hilarious.”

Lance relaxed into the couch, letting sleepiness settle into his bones. “What time is it?” He murmured.

“Uhh, five-thirty.”

“Shit.” _Anddddd_ Lance is awake. He snaps out of his comfortable position on the couch and hops over the coffee table, snatching his backpack and throwing it over his skinny sholders.

“Where are you going?!” Rachel called.

“Nyma’s !” Lance yelled. “Tell Mama i’m at the library, see you ‘round eleven.”

“Wait—“

Rachel’s voice cut off aa he slammed their door shut, rattling its frame. He was going to be late.

Lance can’t be late.

(to anything)

* * *

When Lance got to the park, or what he had _told_ Rachel was “Nyma’s”, he huffed and threw his bag down. 

Nyma and Rolo were already there, laid down on the grass, fingers intertwined. They weren’t together, but they felt like an old couple sometimes. Its gross.

“Did you run here?” Rolo huffed. “You sound like a dog.”

“Fuh....Fuck...You...” Lance panted.

The boy collapsed on the ground next to them, laying his head on Nyma’s chest, right under her boob. Lance shifted his head. Nyma had nice boobs.

Nyma and Rolo have been Lance’s friend since... He doesn’t know when. Sixth grade? They were—excuse the lameness of the expression—three peas in a pod. Amigos. Lance and Rolo and Axca.Lance&Rolo&Nyma. LanceRoloNyma. The most well known trio in school.

“So, as i was saying, should i run for Student body president this year? I think my chances are better considering Mandy from last year graduated but—“

Nyma continues her rant, but Lance prods Rolo’s shoulder a few times.

Rolo flicks him in the forehead. “What do you want?”

Lance just stares, and Rolo knows what he wants.

The boy groaned and lifted his head off his backpack (that he was using as a pillow) so Lance could sift through it’s contents _anddd_ —

Bingo.

Lance pulls out a bag of poorly concealed weed (seriously, one of these days they’re bound to get caught) and a half torn rolling paper. 

Rolo flicks his fingers at Lance, as if to say “ _you roll it.”_

And that’s because Lance is the best of their trio at rolling. His fingers were nimble and skinny and quick, and he’d been able to smoke out of just about anything. Lance smoked out of a Roll-up once.

He lit it with a lighter produced from the front of his threadbare jeans and took a puff, passing it to Rolo. 

The first time Lance started smoking weed was in seventh grade, and where he grew up that was a pretty normal age to start, but when the habit _really_ started the pick up was ninth grade. 

In fact, Lance is pretty sure it’s the reason he only remembers, like, three things from ninth grade. He was high for most of it.

And ahaha....that may have to do with the fact that Lance found out that while he may have not popular with girls as he was normally, but he was taught the extent that freshman girls who had never smoked before would bend their back for a spliff. 

So...yeah. Not exactly what you expect from a straight-A student, but everyone has their vices.

Nyma, on the other hand, was straight. Sober. Didn’t smoke, didn’t want to. Lance wasn’t going to complain—more for him.

Said girl hit Rolo on the shoulder. 

“ _Ow_! What _?!”_

“Don’t smoke too much,” Nyma warned, “We have to go to my grandma’s after this. _My grandma._ What do you want her impression of you to be?!”

“Does it matter?” Rolo took another hit. Lance made grabby hands at the joint. “She’s gonna die soon anyway. Circle of life, man.”

Rolo got another hit to the shoulder, and Lance giggled at his pain. Was it wrong that the pain of others brought him so much joy!”

“Ow! Quit doing that!”

“ _That’s for saying my Grandma’s going to die!”_ Nyma bit. “I told you not to jinx it. I mean, seriously, do you want a cut of the inheritance money or not?”

“Okay, _okay_....Just don’t hit me anymore. Has anyone ever told you that you have a strong right hook?”

She looked like she was holding back the urge to hit him again. Nyma turned her attention away from Rolo, and then unto Lance.

“What about you? Are you coming with us?”

Lance sucked up smoke, pausing to let it settle in his lungs. “Why would I want to come with? Sorry Nym, but it’s your _Grandma_.” Lance taps the joint. “I’ve got all i need right here.”

She raised her brow. Lance gulped. “Are you sure? Like, _sure_ -sure?”

Lance paused. “...What are you offering?

”McDonald's.”

There goes all Lance’s resolve. He acts fake annoyed. “Fine. I’ll go.”—Nyma cheered—“But i’m not sobering for your abuela. She will take me as i am.”

* * *

A Big Mac was much too big of a burger. The quarter pounder still so. But two of the little  one-dollar burgers? And a small fry? 

Lance might allow this.

He gets passed his food, which is hot and salty and greasy and makes him stomach fucking _growl_ with hunger. 

Nyma pulls out of the drive-thru, and just as Lance is raising the burger to his mouth she says—

“That’ll go straight to your ass, y’know.”

Lance put the burger down. “And? You love my ass. My ass is the bread maker of this group, _thank you very much.”_

Rolo, in the passenger’s seat and beyond annoyed with the conversation, turned the music up. He listed to “early seventy’s psychadelic-synth-pop”, as Lance has been lectured about. It was weird. Rolo is weird. 

Lance scowled. 

He did feel bit guilty about the burger now. Did he really need two? That’s a bit much...And he made Nyma pay for it. 

Lance eats one burger, chewing slowly to savor the taste, then threw the second to his psych-synth-listening passenger. 

After finishing it, Lance drew his phone from his back pocket and opened the camera just to see if he had any food left on his face. 

What greeted him was tan skin, carved cheekbones, finely plucked eyebrows, and forehead acne that reminded him he needs to go through his skin care routine tonight.

Lance liked the way he looked, kind of. He wished his cheeks weren’t as round, and that his bigger and his chin a bit sharper, but it’s not like that’s an easy fix. 

The more he looked, the more he didn’t like. 

Lance closed the camera app and put his lips in a harsh line. He would not be looking at his reflection again today. 

* * *

Nyma’s grandma liked Lance. She certainly smelled the pot on them, but his grades and manners made up for it. 

* * *

There was one thing notable about Lance’s life, and it was school. School is what was going to get him _out_ of this place. School was his savior, Lance reminded himself that _everyday_ , because if he didn’t he might remember that—

School is unbearingly, dreadfully, _boring_. 

It didn’t help that his senior year seemed no different from his Junior. And it had only been a week. 

He’s got the same teachers, same bell schedule, same disgusting cafeteria food, and he’s even using the same backpack from last year, since his family can’t afford a new one. 

(Rather, they probably _could_ afford to buy Lance a new backpack, but he’d rather die than go through the trouble of asking.)

And Lance still has Nyma and Rolo, and the social requirements and reputation that goes along with their triangle friendship.

One thing was off though, and that was that Lance didn’t have Nyma _or_ Rolo in his Biology class. 

That proved to be a problem.

Someone had thrown a paper ball at Lance’s head, snickering. Normally, he would’ve—uh, normally this didn’t happen to Lance. But this time it did, and none of his friends were there to witness it, and sub-sequentially Lance didn’t have the balls to do anything but un-crumple it and took a look.

The paper illustrated what he could only assume was a stick-man portrait of himself, with his eyebrows on fire and his eyes crossed out after some crazy mishap in a drawn science lab. 

Was this someones idea of making fun of him? If so, it was so not funny. Is it a threat? If so, _not very threatening._ It was second-grade quality art at best. It didn’t even _look_ like him. Lance has delicate eyebrows, not angry scribbled ones.

Lance turns around and lifts the middle finger at, realistically, the entire class, because he doesn’t know who the perpetrator is and his whole class is thus guilty until proven otherwise and nobody gets in trouble for being a little thorough—

“McClain!” His teacher, Ms. Willis, yelled. “Is that hand gesture appropriate for the class room?”

“Oh, i’m sorry Ms. Willis.” Lance extended _both_ middle fingers. “Would you prefer this one?”

“That’s it.” The old hag scowled. “Dean’s office! _Now.”_

* * *

Plastic chairs, dead flowers, a loud ceiling vent, and walls painted in the finest shade of ‘you’re-a-dissapointment-beige’—the Dean’s office felt like a second home to Lance than anything.

Lance went to the dean’s whenever he needed to discuss college plans, or whenever he was a being a “disruption” to the class, or whenever he was so red-eyed he went there himself out of sympathy for his nerve endings. Whatever it was, the Dean’s office always had a place for him.

“—I honestly don’t know why you keep pulling stunts like this, Lance. Ms. Willis is a _very_ nice lady who is invested in your education and i’m sure she would have been more than happy to write you a great letter of recommendation had you-had you not” — The principle lifted his eyebrow as he read something off a disciplinary form— “flipped her off...twice?”

“Not twice.” Lance corrected flippantly. “Just with two hands.”

The principle, a light-skinned brown man with worry lines etching into his skin, rubbed his temples.

“Look, I can’t keep seeing you in here eventually. Is everything okay at home, Lance?”

Lance was getting sick and tired of that question. Everything was fine. Veronica and Luis were gone, and Mami spends more time in church praying to her God than she does with her own children, and Papi is sleeping in a different house and throwing things at anything that moved and Ignacio takes his side in everything and Marco was God knows where doing God knows what and Lance—

Lance was fine. 

He sighed. “Yes, jeez, you people love that question. Everything’s great.”

“Do i have to call home?”

That sent Lance over the edge, because _nononononoplease._ His mom _cannot_ know that Lance caused trouble, or else his knees will be kissing the rough floors of the rice bed in the chapel long enough to wish he’d never been born.

And then if Ignacio finds out then Papi finds out and he will—

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. Spare me the lecture, please. Have you people seriously ever heard of good old teenage rebellion?” Lance sighed exasperatedly. “I’m begging you, Sir, just give me detention and let me leave.”

The Dean relented. “Fine Lance, fine. Just be here on Saturday at—“

“Eight AM in the morning, _i know_.”

* * *

Lance was early to detention, and was the first one at the door waiting for Ms. Willis. 

It was quite simple really—getting there. All he had to do was tell Mami that he and Nyma (because _god_ she loved Nyma) were going to “Junior Christian athletes bible club and study”, which was just a bullshit club they made up in ninth grade to appease her while Lance lived out his sentences. 

Lance brought his backpack, headphones, and pencil case—He was fully prepared to use the time in detention for schoolwork—except that he had only just finished the first week, and there really wasn’t anything to _do_ for homework.

What happened instead was completely out of his control. 

There was only about five other people in detention. Ms. Willis had already booked it for the teacher’s lounge, grumbling and upset she had to work on a weekend.

The kid next to Lance had thrown a paper ball at him. He—she? She had fluffy brown hair and big round glasses and a small stature and lookedsurprisingly similar to— _hey,_ Lance thinks this kid was in his Bio. 

_Hey_ , he thinks again, _this is the kid who got me in detention._

Lance flings the pen the had been waiting idly on his desk at her, watching it hit him squarely in the forehead and bounce off.

“Ow!” She shouted, “Fuck is your problem?”

“You. Stop throwing paper balls at me.” Lance said flippantly, taking the crumpled paper ball and chucking it into the recycling bin across the room.

The girl with glasses rubbed his forehead dramatically and narrowed his eyes at Lance. “If it leaves a mark i’ll sue you.”

“Yeah?” Lance lifted a brow. “Go ahead and try. You’re like twelve.”

“Sixteen!” She cried indignantly.

Lance rolled his eyes and got up, grabbing his bag. Detention is a waste of time, he decided. Lance should be doing something better, like preparing for his english final, or rolling up.

“Hey—! You’re Lance McClain, aren’t you?” Glasses spoke. “Are you leaving? You can’t just leave detention! That’ll get you suspended.”

Lance scoffed. “No it won’t.” To be honest he had no idea.

“Yeah it will. It’s in Rules and Guidelines, page 16, line 4.”

“How the fuck did you remember that?”

Glasses tapped her forehead. “Photographic memory. Don’t worry about, just sit back down.”

Lance sat back down, tentatively. And he’s doing it because he _wants_ to, not because some gremlin in human clothes told him too, _thank you very much._

Glasses looked akin to a toddler getting a new toy. “My name’s Pidge by the way. I’m a sophomore. So, you _have_ to tell me, how did you get a perfect score on the AP chemistry exam? You must be really smart.”

“I—how do you know about that?”

“I have my sources.” Pidge answered.

Okay, Lance was getting a little freaked out. This kid knows his first and last name _and_ his test scores? Whatthefuck. This kid is freaky. And stalker-ish.

If it weren’t for the threat of suspension, he would be running foe the hills by now. 

“I’m not smart.” Lance said slowly. “I just studied a lot. Payed attention in every class. Took notes on every unit. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Really?” Pidge adopted a smug smile. “The pass rate is only 24 percent. The perfect score rate is under 0.1. But if you don’t want to tell me your secrets that’s fine, personally I’m aiming to match your score _and_ i’m aiming to get in that one program with—“

“Can you guys just shut up?” 

Lance whipped around to face the speaker. It was a boy in the back with longish black hair, a heavy coat on, and one Skull Candy ear bud dangling out. 

Lance shrugged at him. 

Pidge fixed her glasses. “Last time I checked, no one invited you to the conversation.”

Suddenly it seemed like Lance was siding with Pidge, and he regrets that. He wanted them to shut up probably as much as the other kid, but, you gotta be nice to the fans, right?

The boy in the back squinted his eyes. “You do know i’m like twice your size, right?” 

“Yeah and i’ve got twice the brain, idiot.” Pidge shot back, “Plus i’d like to see you try—“

Pidge was cut off by the fact that the boy in the back—or Mullet, as Lance has been calling him in his head—lunged forward and took Pidge by the collar of his shirt. 

Lance took a huge step backwards, but he noticed, even at the mercy of Mullet, Pidge looked back defiantly at him. 

Defiant or not, this kid is going get creamed if Lance doesn’t step in. (Suddenly, he wishes Ms. Willis was here)

“Hey! Hey, woah....Let’s not do that.”

Lance’s hand hovered over Mullet’s shoulder, but did not touch. 

Mullet faced him with a dead expression. “Do my homework for a week, Mr. Perfect score, or he gets pummeled.”

Mouth dropping, Lance unknowingly makes scared puppy eyes. “W-what?”

“Two weeks.” Mullet threatened. “Two weeks of homework or else pipsqueak gets a nose job.”

He was so casual about his threatening, like he did this everyday, like he didn’t care what the outcome was. He was an asshole.

Pidge pleaded to Lance with his eyes. 

After a long handful of seconds, Lance relented. “Fine.” He huffed. “But you tell nobody.”

Mullet gave him a hint of a smile. “Lips are sealed.”

He stuck out a hand to Lance, who looked at it warily. 

Lance’s voice wavered. “I don’t make deals with people I don’t know the names of.”

The black-haired boy tilted his head to the right, as if to say “that’s fair.”

“Keith.” He said simply.

Lance shook the boy’s hand.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments always appreciatted !!!


	2. inefficiencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance hates oranges. And chemistry. And cockroaches. He’s not fond of a lot of things, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes an insight into keith! 
> 
> tw// includes sensitive subject matter, including homophobia, mentions of disordered eating, and abuse

“AGAIN?! Dammit! How hard is it? Huh? To throw the ball to centerfield! It’s not that hard!”

Lance’s father threw a plastic spork at the television in anger, before settling back into his old scruffy chair. His ass might as well be glued to that chair. 

“Lance!” He yelled.

Lance took out an earbud. “Yeah?”

“Get me another beer.” He demanded. “And not one of the ones from the bottom of the pantry like you usually do. I want my drink iced. Get it from the fridge.”

The boy nodded, stepping over miscellaneous junk on the floor in order to reach the fridge, an old white piece of garbage that hums too loudly at night to sleep comfortably.

He opens it, and theres a problem.

“There’s none in the fridge!” Lance yelled back. He just wanted to pop his earbud back in again and go back to cleaning. 

“ _THEN PUT SOME IN YOU FUCKING IDIOT!_ Good Lord.... sometimes the only way I know you’ve got anything between your skull is because you still walk and talk.” 

The yell made Lance flinch back slightly, and he stocked the fridge with room temperature beer, saving one to give to his father. 

“I have straight A’s, y’know.” Lance sighed, popping the cap. He took a small sip of the beer before passing it to his father. 

Papi shook his nearly balding head. “It’s not the same as it was. School these days, it’s so much easier. When I was a kid you couldn’t solve everything with a google search. I’ll tell ya, you wouldn’t last a day.”

Lance doesn’t bring up the fact that schools “nowadays” also have more material to teach, higher expectations, and a heavier workload. He doesn’t. He agrees with his father, because that’s what you do. 

Rachel enters through the backdoor, clad in a classy outfit of grey low-waisted sweatpants and a white tank top with holes worn into it. It showed off her toned stomach and hip dips.

She yawns and scratches at her black hair, glancing at the television. “The Jets? Really?”

“They’re going to come back!”

Lance rolled his eyes. “No they’re not.”

His quip was met with a slap on the arm and Lance jerks his arm away, cradling it and rubbing the pain away with an “ow”.

Rachel barely pays attention to it. “I investigated the croaking noises upstairs. Turns our ceiling neighbor is an eighty-four year old hag named Marge.” She blew air through her nose. “She lives all alone and does nothing but smoke all day. What a life.”

Papi uses the handle on his recliner to fold it down, getting up from the chair. “That’s why we’re leaving this shithole as soon as my mortgage goes through. If those silly bankers would just use their heads....”

Papi lives off unemployment checks. They can barely afford dinner and rent. It’s been like this for a long time. Lance knows that, his siblings know that, but those facts escape Papi’s mind anyways.

Papi used to be very successful. He was a starving business man when he moved to the states, smart and ambitious. All young and scrappy and brave. He made money. He was respected. 

Then he met Mami. Then she gave birth to Luis. Then he got layed off from work.

Things change.

Lance set his lips in a line and forces himself not to think about it. Not today.

Rachel tosses him an orange and he flubs the catch, dropping it on the floor.

“What was that for?” He bent over to pick it up.

“Eat something healthy.” Rachel responded. “I don’t think i’ve seen you put anything but chips in your mouth since tuesday.” 

“That’s because chips are _good_.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, until you’re immobile and grease runs through your veins instead of blood. You’re like one of those people from Picky Eaters.”

He was not. 

.....Was he? 

Lance doesn’t tend to keep tabs on himself often.

He resolves his falter and scoffs at her. “ _Fine_.”

He starts peeling the orange. Lance was indifferent about oranges, because while he mildly enjoyed their taste, it was excruciatingly hard to peel them efficiently. Bananas peel easy. You can eat the skin off apples. Oranges? Neither. Their peel tastes like citrus-flavored rubbing alcohol and it extends into almost every part of the fruit, like a disease or some inoperable tumor.

Oranges are inefficient. Lance hates inefficiency. 

The peel, naturally, gets stuck under his fingernails. Lance furrowed his brow and sighed. “Ugh. Where’s Nacho?”

“Don’t know.” Rachel answered curtly, which meant he was hanging down at the compound, but she couldn’t outright say that because Papi was listening. “Want me to peel that for you?”

Lance scrunched his brows. Fuck it. He bites into the orange, peel and all, and spits out the part with skin into the trashcan. _Inefficient stupid fruit._

“Orrrrr, you could just do that.”

* * *

Lance didn’t know how Keith was supposed to contact him for their “deal”. They didn’t talk about details. They didn’t exchange numbers. All three of them simply went back to serving detention in silence.

Lance had already gotten his part of the deal, and P—what was her name again? Something with a P. P-something didn’t get hurt, so Lance wasn’t too worried about it.

He was more worried about the fact that it was Papi’s night, and it would be for three more days. 

There was nothing inherently bad about Lance’s father. Sure, sometimes he was a bit overreactive, and had a habit of throwing things when he got angry, but he loved Lance. (He thinks)

Papi was just....hurt. Ever since Mami left him he’d been just a bit more bitter everyday, drinking away the time some nights. He and Lance got into meaningless arguments. 

And Papi didn’t live near Lance’s school, since his mother got the house when they divorced. It was a twenty minute drive there. He had a small house for quite some time, but got evicted one month ago for too many overdue payments. Now Papi lived in a longterm motel. 

Someone snapped their fingers in Lance’s face. It was Nyma.

“Lance? Dude, you’re totally spaced out right now. Are you gonna eat your sandwich or just look at it?”

Lance looked down at the foil wrapped sandwich, milk carton, and applesauce on his lunch tray. He had no cookies or extras, this was all you could get on a reduced lunch plan.

He hands the sandwich to Nyma. Lance wasn’t hungry anyways. 

“Thanks.” Nyma unwrapped it and took the pickles off. “Remember Mark? Tall, brown hair, mole on the nose, graduated last year?”

”Yeah.” Lance grumbled.

Nyma sneered. “I heard he’s a total fruitcake now.”

Rolo stopped mid-chew into his chips. “Really? Mark?” He looked sick suddenly. “I _changed_ in front of him.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “So? I’m sure he didn’t want a piece of you.”

”Still,” Nyma pressed, “It’s like, totally weird. I mean he dated Cher for a fucking year! Ugh, poor girl.”

Lance didn’t really know Mark well, but he had been nice to him. He thinks they were lab partners in Bio once. Can’t believe he was a gay all along...

Knitting his eyebrows, Rolo helped himself to the applesauce from Lance’s plate and stole the cookie off Nyma’s. Stoner appetite. 

“He didn’t seem like one.” He said. “Guy was in ROTC for like three years. Fucking weird.”

“Enough about Mark.” Nyma said with finality. “Did you notice that new girl in english this morning? She looked, like, totally drab. I think she’s....over there.”

Lance turned his head, but Nyma hit him on the head. 

“Don’t look now? idiot! Ugh, you’re so obvious.”

Lance scrunched his nose. “Meanie. Be nice to me or I won’t bring you my mom’s leftovers anymore.”

“You monster!”

Nyma was about to launch into another rant, but another look behind Lance made him turn. 

She was looking at the new girl from english again. She wasn’t traditionally pretty by any means, her hair was poorly bleached, and her eyes were a mess of mascara and eyeliner. An oversized black hoodie drapes over her shoulders and covered the tops of her hands. She sat alone.

Nyma wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know why anyone would want to dress like that. She looks like Edward Scissorhands.”

“Hey, I _like_ Edward Scissorhands.” Rolo cuts in.

“Nobody asked you, Rolo.”

Lance sighs. “That’s it. I don’t know why i’m friends with you people. None of you are getting any more leftovers.”

Lance’s statement was met with shouts and the throwing of sporks. 

* * *

Papi’s motel had two bedrooms. 

One was purely for himself, and the other had to fit Lance, Rachel, and Ignacio.

It was a cramped fit. Right now, Ignacio was hogging most of the bed, legs spread and face planted into the pillow, and Rach’s feet were propped up on Lance’s legs.

He closed his eyes, trying to go to sleep. It didn’t work.

Lance opened his bleary eyes. “Fuck this.”

He swung his legs off the bed and was met with exhausted groans. 

“ _What_ are you getting up for?” Rach groaned. “It’s two AM Lance!”

“I can’t sleep with you people breathing down my necks.” He unzipped his backpack. “Plus I just remembered I have calculus homework.”

Rachel rolled back over with her pillow. 

Lance got no sleep that night.

* * *

He wasn’t particulary happy in the morning. Note that the choice of words did not say “when he woke up”, Because Lance did _not_ go to sleep, therefore, he did not wake up.

Groggily, he tried and failed to open his locker a couple times. Stupid code. It was so finicky. 

Someone leaned against the locker besides Lance’s.

“Morning Rolo, I— _you’re not Rolo.”_

Lance woke up a bit. Standing next to his locker was Keith, the boy from the detention. 

Keith’s looks were...notable. He was very clearly part asian—though Lance has no idea what part—and part white. His nose was curved but strong, his eyes were dark brown and intense, like two burning coals. A small birthmark marred his cheek, and he had a small indented scar on his forehead. It was all accented by longish fluffy black hair. 

He was a, uh, good looking man. Objectively speaking, of course. 

Said pretty boy drilled his eyes into Lance. The whole hallway seemed to hold its breath.

“Nice eyebags.” He said cooly.

“Fuck off.” Lance tried his locker combo again and it finally opened. Good thing too, it would have been really fucking embarrassing if Keith saw him get it wrong for the third time. 

“Woah, woah. Someone didn’t get their beauty sleep?” Keith quirked a brow at him. It was infuriating that he could do that on command—who the fuck learns to _quirk_ a _brow?_

“Calm down,” Keith dropped a thin stack of papers into Lance’s hands, “I just came to drop these off.”

“I—wha—this is like three works worth of work!” Lance cried. 

Keith became smugger, if that was even possible . “Yeah, I got in a bit of a slum. Oh well, you’ll help me out, of course?”

Lance’s face screwed up. He may not be good at other things, but Lance had to deal with scum from the projects and his own bull-headed father and he _knew_ when he was being toyed with.

“ _Fuck_ no.” He spat. 

Keith seemed a taken back, and Lance used th moment to try and walk away, but Keith caught him by the backpack strap, looking a but frustrated that Lance wasn’t bending to his will. 

“Our _deal_ ,” he grit, “remember?”

Lance blinked. “What deal?”

Unknowingly to Lance, it took every ounce of strength Keith had in him to not lay hands on him right then and there. The boy took a deep breath.

“Look, do the work and I won’t pummel pipsqueak—and don’t test me, i’ll do it.”

Lance backed down. He really didn’t want Pidge to get hurt, she was annoying but he didn’t want her to get hurt. 

Lance gritted his teeth. “They’ll be done by tomorrow morning.”

Keith’s lip quirked upwards. “Perfect.”

* * *

Keith was mad.

Mad because he was lied to, and he’s been lied to a _lot_ in his life—but from _him?_

Unbelievable.

Keith bee-lined for the Library—where he _knew_ Shiro would be. The man was reading quietly at table in the back. Keith slammed his palms on the table. Harsh.

“I thought you said that kid was a pushover?!”

Shiro blinked up at him, unfazed. “Who?”

“The nerd with the perfect Bio score! _Lance!”_

Shiro scratched the back of his platinum blond head. “He didn’t fold? That’s weird. Totally pegged him for the folding type.”

Keith sat down with a slump. “ _No,_ he didn’t fold, but he hustled me for it. He’s a _hustler_.” Keith sighed. He really couldn’t believe this. “God, I feel so stupid.”

The blond shrugged. “At least we have proof that I can be wrong now.”

That little comment made Keith wish he had a pencil to jab into Shiro’s ear. He refrained.

Keith really had almost humiliated himself. He didn’t really _want_ to beat up that little kid with the glasses, it was just his only leverage. In a weird way, he kinda respected how she stood up for herself. It was stupid, but brave. Tomato-Tomato. 

The dark-haired boy pawed at hair ties around his wrist, removing one and twisting it to remove aphrension. “You used to be so nice, y’know? A freedom fighter.” He turned to Shiro. “Look how that turned out. You’re just like me.”

He got a toothy smile in response. It was the same smile Shiro gave him when they first met, when Keith was eight. It’s the one thing about Shiro that won’t change. 

“I practically raised you,” Shiro said, amusement tinting his voice. “If anything, you’re a mini me.”

And that’d be true.

* * *

Lance was swamped with work. Homework. Schoolwork. Training for track. Chores. 

It was suffocating him. It was, truly, but not more suffocating than the fear of failing. Lance isn’t sure that fear will ever be topped. 

Doing that bully’s chem work sure as hell wasn’t helping. Not to mention, Lance _hates_ chemistry. The subject just doesn’t mesh well with his stupid little learning-disabled brain.

He doesn’t have time for showers, or for weed, or even to eat. 

...Eating isn’t really on his mind though anyway. Lance doesn’t think he’s _fat_ by any means, but losing weight is good. It’s always good, ‘cause that’s what everyone wants, right? And if he’s lighter it will make track season a hell of a lot easier next semester.

That, and the fact that Lance doesn’t want to eat in the first place. 

....

He doesn’t dwell on it. There will be time for food when he aces his SAT.

Nacho busts into Lances’s room. When he speaks it bares his bright blue braces. “Lance, Mili is asking if you want to join them for a game of basketball!”

“Tell them no.” Lance scowled.

“Aw, come on,” Nacho pleaded, “You’ve been in there for hours. Have a little fun. ‘Sides, Papi gets home soon.”

“I’ll be fine.” He responds.

Nacho closes the door and Lance lets the air that filled his lungs escape. He doesn’t know why he was holding his breath. Maybe it’s because Lance doesn’t like people opening doors without a knock cause who _knows_ who it will be and what they’ll want, what they’ll want from _lance_ and its-it’s _scary_ and—

Deep breath out. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In....

...

Out.

Lance puts his pencil  back on the paper.

* * *

An hour later, the next person to enter the room isn’t Ignacio. Or Rachel.

It’s Papi. He’s wearing a slacks and a button-up, which can only mean he’s just got bacl from a job interview, and he looks...blank. 

“The dishes aren’t done.” He says.

Lance jumps out of his chair. “I-i’m sorry, i’ll—“

Lance’s father puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, I know you have schoolwork. Just get it done. You know what happens when we leave the dishes after lights out.”

The hand on his shoulder felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, squashing Lance farther and farther, until he was just a speck on the floor. He kept his head down. 

“Roaches. I know, Papi.” Lance responded.

“Good.”

* * *

Lance forgot to do the dishes.

Papi realized it quicker than he did, and in that time he had drunken enough alcohol to where Lance could smell it on his breath.

That same thousand-pound hand—because Papi had _big_ hands— was clamped on his skinny shoulders as he drug Lance out to the kitchen, who was apologizing profusely.

A roach, about two inches in length, crawled from the sink and onto the counter. It twitched it’s antennas, looking at Lance quizzically.

Lance’s father forced Lance’s head down, eye level with the roach. 

“What did I _fucking_ tell you?!”

Fear. Fear, fear, _fear_ like feeling a spider on your neck or having your seatbelt come undone in a roller coaster. That’s what he feels. 

“I—i’m—i—“ Lance stuttered. 

The roach stared back, brown and ugly and _squirming_ —

The hand shoved his head down making Lance’s face collide with the counter. It made a loud thud, but Lance didn’t even register the pain because as soon at is was over he was scrambling away from the counter. 

He had been this close to the roach. He—he, and it—It—it had been up to his face, and _oh god._

He couldn’t breathe. Lance was crying, but more than that he just couldn’t get air. Bringing frantic hands to his face, Lance made sure there wasn’t squished roach guts all over him.

There wasn’t entirely. Lance instead pealed a single sticky roach leg off his forehead, his finger slick with blood, and dry heaved.

Papi was gone before Lance could apologize. 

He’ll never leave the dishes out again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okie, like i said last chapter any comment u want to leave are apreciatted! :)
> 
> btw, this fic hopefully will not be abandoned! though i might like some help with it >.<


	3. grey butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover it up, cover it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am quite literally failing school
> 
> enjoy this

There was a gash in Lance’s forehead.

It wasn’t gory, and no where near life threatening, but it was a gash all the same. An inch long and bruised around the edges—makeup would not cover this up. 

Lance decided to just let the cut show and glare at anyone who dares to ask. Then once it scabs over he’ll cover it with a band-aid and it’ll be fine. 

Fine. It will be fine.

Lance couldn’t find Papi this morning. Rachel tells him that he left early for Mass.

_So he ran away,_ Lance thought. Like always.

Rachel touches his forehead and Lance winces. She worries her pink lip-gloss covered lip. “What happened?”

Lance just shakes his head, and she knows.

“Oh.” Rachel doesn’t look at him. “I’m sorry. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

Of course _she_ doesn’t think he means it. It’s different for Rachel. Papi never takes his anger out on her. It had always been her brothers. 

They shouldn’t be talking about this. Lance _hates_ talking about this. Because why do it? I they just _pretend_ like there _wasn’t_ a gash on Lance’s head then it didn’t _happen_ and they can all move on with their lives. Rachel doesn’t understand that. Why can’t she just pretend? Why can’t she just pretend with him? 

Ugh. Sometimes, he hates her. Lances whole family is so, so stupid.

Stupid.

* * *

People stare at Lance. 

Their eyes penetrate his back and front and all planes of his body, laughing and whispering and _snickering_ at him. At least, that’s what it feels like.

He pulls up his hood over his head and concentrates on picking the little balls of lint off the sleeves. 

A hand pulls the hood off his head. It’s Nyma. Her and Rolo just walked into class.

“Dude,” Nyma snickers, “what happened to your—“

Lance levels her with a glare.

“Okay, okay, drama queen. I won’t ask.”

The teacher started up class and the chattering quieted. He wrote on the white board, in loopy faded-red letters, _‘GROUP PROJECT- The psychoanalysis of Macbeth’._

Lance groaned internally, and then externally for good measure. He _hates_ group projects. Even when he gets to work with his friends. Lance needed....he needed control of the project. He needs it to go  his way. Other people just slow him down.

Rolo raised his hand and the teacher shook his head. “No, Rolo, you cannot choose your own groups. You three would wreak havoc.”

Lance stifled a laugh. Beside him, Nyma wore a cat-like grin. 

The teacher shut down the smile spreading on his own face. “I will be assigning the groups.”

He started writing names on the board. Lance grew anxious.

What if it was someone he really didn’t like? Or another girl flirting with him just to get to Rolo? 

Lance shouldn’t be getting anxious over this. He’s not allowed to, Lance is one of the most popular kids at school. So, just breathe.....

Next to Lance’s name, the teacher wrote _Hunk_.

Lance’s heart dropped. He did not expect that outcome. 

Hunk was Lance’s childhood bestfriend. They played together, had sleepovers together, shared their deepest secrets—and then Hunk went to a different Middle School than Lance. 

Then he became wildly unpopular. A nobody.

Then....Then they pretended to not know each other.

Lance gulped as he quickly glanced to the back of the class where he knew Hunk was sitting. They lock eyes for a moment and the boy whips back around, heart racing. 

Play it cool. Lance raises a hand. “Um, what if we really don’t like our partner?”

He asked it in an airy, dumb way that made the class laugh. Hunk shrunk away, hiding himself behind the backpack perched on his desk. Everyone could clearly see that he was who Lance was talking about. 

Lance’s English teacher sighed. “Then you deal with it. Though I don’t see why anyone in this class should have a problem with each other. You’re all fabulous students.”

Class went on. Lance joked, laughed, and acted relaxed as ever. But behind his eyes his worried mind raged. Lance went through all the worst-case scenarios: What if Hunk hates him? What if Hunk wanted to be friends again? No, that would be social suicide. How much would it hurt Lance’s grade if he refused to do the project? 

In the back of the class, Similar thoughts ran through Hunk’s head too.

* * *

Lance stayed after class. 

His teacher’s name was Mr. Cortez. A skinny old man on the tail-end of his fifties who loved to drone on and on about the metaphors of Poe.

Mr. Cortez adjusted his glasses. “What is it, Lance?”

“Oh, um, you assigned that group project today and I was wondering if I could do it by myself? I would prefer to work alone. I mean, uhm, I procrastinate a lot, and I don’t think Hunk would really enjoy working with that....”

Mr. Cortez did not look convinced. “I haven’t seen you turn in an assignment late, _ever_. You don’t procrastinate, Lance. Mind telling me the real reason you want a partner change?”

Lance stilled for a moment, then sighed, giving up. “Okay, don’t mention it to anyone, but Hunk and I have a.... past.” Lance fibbed a bit. “We don’t get along. I can’t work with him.”

Mr. Cortez stared at Lance for a long time, from the ratty paint-splattered backpack hanging off his toothpick frame, pleading brown eyes, and the poorly-bandaged gash on his forehead. Lance’s insides bubbled like a cauldron and he kept his eyes glued to some stapler on his desk.

“No.” Mr. Cortez said at last. “I’m afraid the grouping is non-negotiable. Sorry Lance, but I think you’ll just have to move on.”

* * *

“Here you go.” 

The heavy stapled mass of paper made a noise as it slapped down against the hard wood of the table. Lance made sure the un-enthusiasm in his voice was clear to Keith. 

He watches the boy’s fingers as they sort through pages. Keith’s fingers were long, and pale, but not overly skinny. They were bruised at the knuckles and he obviously did not take care of his nails. 

Lance stopped looking when he realized Keith’s hands had stopped moving, and his eyes had wandered up to Lance’s.

“What happened to your face?” 

The question was not asked eloquently. There wasn’t any note of concern, just plain curiosity. And a little rudeness.

“None of your business.” Lance snapped. 

Keith said nothing in return as went back to trifling through papers. He paused on one though, finger curling the edge of the paper.

“What’s this?” Keith turned the paper so Lance could see and—his heart stopped beating for a moment. 

It was Lance’s computer-printed copy of the answer key for the AP Chemistry final exam.

Fuck.

“Nothing!” Lance tried to grab the paper back, but Keith’s grip on it was too tight. 

A ghost of a smile crept on Keith’s face and he drummed his fingers on the table. Lance had never seen Keith smile before. It was terrifying. 

“Is this what I think it is?”

Lance scowled. “No i—“

“It totally is.” Keith chuckled lowly. “Goody-two shoes cheats on his tests, huh? Getting the perfect score is just _that_ worth it, huh?”

Lance frowned at the smug boy. “What do you want?”

Keith stopped drumming his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “What do you mean?”

Oh. Lance backtracked. “Nothing.”

“No-no, wait.” Keith let his chair fall forward with a thump. “Were you going to _bribe_ me? Oh my god, is this blackmail material?”

Lance really wishes he kept his fat fucking mouth shut. A dangerous glimmer went through Keith’s eyes. He looked amused and disinterested at the same time, and it made Lance feel akin to a speck of dirt. Or maybe that was just him.

He thought about his trash neighborhood, about the crumbling walls and sinking foundations, the poor water pressure in all the plumbing, the cop raids on the crack houses and the shootouts at the gas station...

Lance sighed. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just—that _can’t_ get out. It can’t. You—You don’t understand how important college is  to me—“

“Okay, okay. I get it. Sheesh.” The dark haired boy snaked the answer key into his own backpack and Lance watched woefully from across the table. The boy then snatched up a piece of paper, and wrote something down on it.

Keith shoved the paper towards Lance and got up from the table.

Lance grabbed the paper. “What’s this?”

“My address and phone number.” Keith replied.“You’ll need it. You’re going to be doing my English project afterall.”

And then he walked away, leaving Lance dumbfounded at the little strip of paper.

* * *

Nyma wore frilly pink crop tops. They were small, they were slutty, and they were made purely out of polyester that made her feel stuffy on hot days and to where lance and her would have to make multiple trips to the bathroom so she could wipe the boob sweat out of her bra—and, they made all the boys drool in her direction when she walked in the room. Because those pink crop tops, as torturous as they are, were _hot_. 

It’s not like she needed them though. Nyma wouldn’t even spare most of them a glance, she just liked the attention, which seemed a little exhausting to Lance. 

But, he guesses Nyma likes the feeling of being coveted.

Lance lays over one of those pink crop tops now, his and Nyma’s bodies crisscrossed in the shape of an X.

Lazily, Lance took another 3 second hit from his dab pen. Carts were so convenient. It almost makes up for the fact that he’s messing up his lungs. 

They had always been this close, him and Nyma. Ever since middle school. They were theplatonically romantic best friends you would see holding hands in the halls; the ones everyone thought were dating but weren’t. 

Lance couldn’t really begin to imagine dating Nyma. Though, he did like laying on her boobs. They made for a good pillow. 

Lance took another hit. Could he imagine...like, touching Nyma’s boobs? In some sort of sexy way?

...no. No, not really.

The thought of him squishing Nyma’s boob makes Lance laugh out loud.

“What’re you laughing about?” Nyma scoffed.

”Nothing.” Lance said. 

Nyma reaches behind herself to drop a chip on Lance’s face. Lance reached out with his tongue to eat it. It was Lays Classic. 

“You sure you don’t want a bag? They’re in the corner of my room.” She offered.

Lance knew where they were. Nyma hadn’t moved her snack stash since they were twelve. 

“I’m okay.”

Nyma laughed and Lance could feel it throughout his body. “You really don’t eat much anymore. Not like you did in middle school, anyways. I remember you once ate a whole bag of hot Cheetos in a minute for a dollar. Why don’t you do that anymore? It was so hilarious. Now you’re like a stick. I think your spine is puncturing my lung.”

If Lance could shrug in this position he would. Instead, he just nodded his head back a bit. “I like being skinny, s’all. Unlike some people.”

Nyma swatted him with a chip that broke into crumbs on his arm.

“Shut up.” She laughed. “God I miss this. Just me and you, no Rolo. He would have done something to ruin this, y’know? Like, ‘we should go to whatever’s party’, or, ‘try this new herbal blend’, or something.”

Lance shifted. Nyma says a lot of stuff like that recently. And even though she claims to treasure her time without him, Rolo is always her topic of interest. Lance doesn’t put in the effort to try and understand it all. He just agrees with her. Girls are weird.

“So...” She trailed off, stuffing more chips into her mouth. Nyma smacked her lips. “What’s been up with you? Anything interesting happen recently? Like, seriously. I need drama. I am so bored.”

Lance pursed his lips. No answer he could think of sounded great. Like, _‘Oh it’s nothing really, Nyma. I just got blackmailed by the school’s bully and now i have to do all his work and—oh yeah! I cheated on my finals back in may. Also, did you notice the giant bruise on my face? It’s not like you bother to ask, but my dad beats me. It’s great.’_

Yeah. Lance doesn’t think he wants to share all that just yet.

So Lance says nothing and agrees with her, like everything around him is boring and grey and moot and _not_ like his life isn’t crumbling apart around him.

She throws another salty chip at him and giggles. It clears his head. 

Lance turns over and sticks his tongue out on her stomach and Nyma yelps. She fakes a gag and hits him back and then they are giggling and screaming and they’d started a tickle fight—

and Lance doesn’t know how two people could be so close and yet so distant.

* * *

Lance is forced to do his homework at the dinner table tonight, right next to Mami’s expensive copy of the bible. Apparently, Lance hasn’t _“spent enough time with God lately.”_ He doesn’t see how doing homework next to the bible is spending time with God, but Lance doesn’t have the energy to upset Mami today. 

She’s cooking in the kitchen just a walk away from Lance so she could keep an eye on him and fry up some _tajadas_ at the same time. Mami is a scary woman.

The sizzling oil keeps distracting Lance. It’s at times like this he wishes they could afford to eat out at restaurants, so that he doesn’t have to listen to popping oil or eat the same leftovers for a week or listen to the men on the radio babble about nonsensical bible verses and how the new christians are ruining the religion.

Maybe his biggest fear though was Mami’s grease spoon, of which she would wack him with if he dare interrupt her cooking.

Halfway through his homework, Nacho walks in and slams the front door.

 _”No gulpear la puerta!”_ Mami shouted at him. _“Porque? Porque estas enajada?!”_

Nacho turned around slowly. His hood was over his face. _“Lo siento_ , Mami.”

”Why is your hood over your face? _Tomalo!”_

Nacho slowly took the hood off his face. Mami gasped at the big bruise on Nacho’s face and the cut on his lip. 

He...fought? That’s not unlike Nacho. But to get hurt is unusual. 

Mami blew a fuse.

“ _DONDE SACASTE ESE?!”_ She waved her mighty grease spoon in the air. “Ignacio—Are you fighting? I—don’t even bother coming home to this house that _i_ pay for if you’re going to act like some common street criminal!”

“I had to!” Nacho shouted. “ _Ellos estaban hablando mierda de nustera familia!_ You should have heard the things they said about—“

Nacho promptly shuts his mouth after realizing he was saying too much. He casts a look into Lance’s direction that makes him shiver.

Mami made Nacho pray over a bed of rice afterwards. He was grounded for a month and she even took his cellphone too. They argued much into the late hours, but Lance didn’t get to hear the end of the argument before Rachel had grabbed him, gotten in the car, and drove off to Papi’s motel for the night. Hopefully where he can get some restful sleep. 

* * *

Black mold grows on the ceiling of Lance’s corner of the motel room. It’s grey, and spongy, and peeling through layers of plaster like it was nothing. Lance thinks its because of his upstairs neighbors. He imagines them taking a long, hot shower, getting out and letting the water slide off their bodies....

and it would collect in a small puddle on the floor. They wouldn’t clean it. And over weeks and weeks of abuse the puddle would drip down, lower and lower, until it appears on Lance’s ceiling, in the form of mold.

It’s probably not so safe to be sleeping under it. Black mold is dangerous. Messes with your brain, or some shit. 

Lance squints up at it. If he squints long enough it looks like a big grey butterfly. Huh. It makes him feel better to look at it that way.

Maybe that’s what Mami and Papi did. They saw grey butterflies.

....Lance, in hindsight, doesn’t think Mami ever even liked Papi. 

He’s seen the pictures. When Lance’s mother was young, she was the haughty, curvaceous, independent woman every man on the block had eyes for. But she only had eyes for one man, and that man was God. 

She was the kind of woman to fight with one fist and clutch the cross fervently in the other. She spent every morning at Mass. Every evening meal was accented with a prayer, and every night she read the pages of her own weathered bible to go to sleep. 

Papi stole her away from that. He gave her a child out of wedlock, Luis. Papi stole _God_ away from her. Lance doesn’t think she ever forgave him for that. 

But, they got married still. Lance and his siblings were born. His parents fought, sure, but they saw grey butterflies. They looked at the black mold growing all over _everything_ and they saw grey butterflies. They saw them.

But, when Mami started praying more than she cooked food for her own children, and when Papi missed one too many of Marco’s soccer games for an appointment with his secretary and a pair of red lace panties— they didn’t see butterflies. They screamed and cried and threw things at each other but it didn’t stop the wings from dissolving back into the weeping ceiling plaster, turning back into ordinary mold.

There’s no such thing as grey butterflies, Lance decides. He is probably going to die because of the black mold growing over his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos n comments r lovely and make my day <3333  
> any thoughts r always apreciatted!


End file.
